Then Don't
by LadyTrish
Summary: Those small drops, pouring with rage from heaven, were like a balm to her sand kissed skin, washing away her sweat that seemed to be her constant companion nowadays...spoilers for season 7...TIVA...rated T for safety, and now reposted minor problems


**Dear all,**

**thank you so much for the great reviews. It really made me so happy that I felt inspired to write this. I hope you like it and please drop a few lines after you finished reading. Enjoy :))**

**xoxo LadyTrish  
**

* * *

**Then Don't**

The rain was sipping through her clothes, sliding down her face, making her brown curly hair stick to her forehead. Those small drops, pouring with rage from heaven, were like a balm to her sand kissed skin, washing away her sweat that seemed to be her constant companion nowadays. Yet the small sized storm did not come alone, it walked hand in hand with a cruel and biting wind, typical for October, turning the rain into an angry sword cutting through the few people that chose this time at night to walk. It was the kind of rain that freezes your skin until it turns blue; the type of rain that transforms your clothes from warm comfort into heavy nightmare, but most importantly this was the kind of rain that turns the numbest soul into a chattering ice block.

Yet she couldn't care less; Ziva David was actually thankful that she could actually feel the drops carving their way through her clothes, reaching her skin and cleaning it, most importantly cleaning her soul, which she thought was dirty and black.

She had woken up during the night again, again at the same hour, 2 AM, again with the lingering presence of the same nightmare she had been having since Somalia.

At night she was back in Somalia, tight to a chair, facing Tony, with Saleem standing beside them. He would grab Tony's hair, putting a knife to his throat. She could still remember the blue shade of the hunting knife's blade, the way it reflected the sweat dripping down Tony's Adam's apple. Then in one swift move, where once smooth skin had been, ruby tears would trickle down gently from an angry looking gap, staring at her, while Tony's eyes went glassy his breath coming in shorter gasps. She would yell, curse, cry and struggle to get to him, but his eyes would slowly dim down until nothing remained in them, until the softness, kindness and determinacy would slip away leaving just a black void strongly contrasting with the red gushing on his throat.

With a scream she would wake up every time, sweating and panting, her voice reverberating on the walls of her bare apartment. She would feel through her clenched fist, her pillow and the moisture of it and her lids would be heavy with tears. Sleep would avoid her, or she would avoid it; too terrified to fall in the nights arms she would turn on her small TV set and try to watch something just to keep her busy.

But tonight everything had been different. Tonight the light lullaby of her TV could not grant her a few hours of sleep, because tonight the nightmare had been too real, too painful. Tonight, when the scene had repeated itself, she had managed to rip the rope that was keeping her hands hostage; she had caught him before he fell. This time he had spoken, no, more exhaled the words that she feared the worst: "You are not worth it!"

Ziva had been petrified in her dream, only to wake up screaming again. She knew he was right and that made her feel hollow and scared. He had gone to Somalia to take revenge; he was ready to die, for her. For her! She did not deserve that; she did not deserve such a sacrifice coming from him, not after all that she did. Not after she had betrayed him, hurt him, almost put a bullet through him. No, after such cruel, terrible, hurtful things, she did not deserve to be saved by him.

Again sleep fled from her body leaving her thrashing in her bed, crying, hitting the pillow with her tinny fists. Yet nothing comforted her and she was slowly suffocating in her own despair and tears. So she did what she did best, what had always made her forget the world and herself, she ran. She jumped out of bed; her eyes filled with a web of tears, grabbed her running outfit, falling a few times in the process, and her iPod and ran through the door.

There she was, Ziva David, former Mossad agent, branded assassin for the rest of her life, alone and hurt, tortured and betrayed, lost and scared, with no certain place in this world. The rain crashed into her, heavy and mercy less, but she didn't care, she just ran though the park, ran through the street, ran though the early morning without knowing where her feet would take her.

* * *

On the other side of town, in a king sized bed with blue cotton sheets and light feathered pillows laid a man in his boxers, shirtless and sleepless. Mechanically, like in a dream, his hand made his way to his face, rubbing his eyes hard. Slowly he tilted his head to the left only to spot the mocking light of his alarm clock, blinking calmly, indicating 3:30 AM. He sighted and turned his back to the clock, trying to defy it, maybe even prove it wrong and later laugh in its face, that sleep had found him in the end. Yet nothing like that happened, he just moved again in his bed, his hand brushing the right side of his bed, now empty and cold. Somehow it did not bother him that his sheets did not hold the arrogant aroma of a new conquest, or that he did not accidentally brush his hand against the delicate and smooth skin of a woman in the night. No, he did not care, and frankly he did not want to do it anymore. Nowadays his mind was filled with only her face, more precisely her haunted, tiered face, her blank eyes, and her flinching body every time he would make a sudden move. Before Somalia his mind would have been filled with her, with her creamy legs, her curly hair, her full lips and those piercing eyes that made him lust for her. He wanted that woman back, he wanted the fire in her back, but he was afraid that _they_ had broken her so bad that she would never recover. He hated Saleem from what he had put her through, her hated her father for treating her like she was worthless, but most of all he hated Rivkin. He hated him for playing with her emotions, for gaining her trust and then using her like she was a cheap whore, he hated him because he got to kiss her, touch her, caress her, and hold her, in the end only damaging her almost beyond repair. All of them had only hurt her, but the worst part was, he wasn't better than they were. He had hurt her the most, he had doubted her, killed her boyfriend, caused to leave and in the end pushed her into Saleem' arms, into darkness and pain.

Now there he was, in a bed much too large for one person, too empty and yet so filled with memories. He was no stranger to nightmares, but sometime she thought the nightmares that haunted his nights were more bearable then the nightmare he was living though every day. He knew she would never forgive him for what he had done. She had apologized in the men's room, and he had thought they were fine, but somehow her haunted eyes seemed to tell him another story. When he would look at her and see the hurt glare she would give him, he knew that she was suffering because of him and there was no way she could forget and forgive such a thing.

His eyes ached with the lack of sleep and the tears that threatened to escape him, so he decided to walk through his apartment, stretching his legs, maybe in the end watch a movie and make his thoughts succumb.

In a trance like state Tony had dressed and walked out of his apartment, his feet having a mind of its own. He did not care too much for the rain, or of the fact that it was cold, he just wanted to escape his mind.

He came to sudden stop, his thoughts focused again, when he reached the park in front of the NCIS building. _"Great, now I'll have to take cab back to my apartment."_ He thought, but through the lacy curtain of the rain he could spot a form that caught his attention. It was familiar to him, and his feet started leading him towards the wet spot on the ground, where the form was sitting all curled up. In a swift movement he whipped the rain from his eyes; his feet moving more urgent towards the figure. His heart crashed against his ribcage violently and a name repeated itself in his mind like a mantra: "_Ziva, Ziva, Ziva, Ziva!"_

When he reached the form, he knew who it was; his heart had told him all along that it was her. Smoothly he sat down next to her, glaring at her with fiery, piercing eyes, yet his mouth was dry and it seemed he had lost the ability to speak.

Slowly, after countless seconds, she turned her head, to look at him, at his wet face, listening to his even breaths. She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real and not a figment of her imagination, and to make sure that Saleem had not hurt him. But her hands refused to move, to cup his face, her lips would not move while her voice lost somewhere deep in her crushed soul.

He could smell the tears then actually see them, and he noticed that she was shacking violently, while her lips had turned blue. Somewhere inside of him an angry voice screamed at him, ordering him to take her in his arms, warm her, warm her lips with his, but he ignored it. To afraid to make a move, not to scare her, he just stared at her, breathing her aroma that the rain had swirled around her. Ziva was jasmine, cinnamon and pepper, she was fire, heat and warmth, Ziva was afraid, Ziva was cold, Ziva was fading in front of his eyes. Her voice, so small and shaky, snapped him back to reality.

"I had a dream about you, again." She spoke softly.

"Oh!" was the only thing he could mutter.

"It wasn't a good dream though, it was a nightmare." She continued and he swallowed hard.

It crushed him to know that he caused her nightmares.

"We were back in Somalia and you were again on that chair, your hands bound behind your back, and I was sitting in front of you." She paused, tacking a shaky breath, her warm breath floating in front of her.

"He put a blade to your throat and I could see you swallow hard, I could smell you, and then he cut your throat, not deep enough to kill you on the spot, but enough to leave you bleeding to death." She continued her pupils dilated, her body frozen.

He did not speak, but it terrified him to know that she dreamt about Saleem killing him. A long silence wrapping them tightly, but she finally broke it, her voice cracking every couple of word.

"I managed to rip myself free and catch you before you fell to the ground. I could see the light fading out of you, and I begged you to stay with me, but you told me…" she was sobbing uncontrollably by this point. "…you told me that I was not worth it…and I know you were right. I know that I am not worth it, not worth saving and I expect that at one point you will start regretting that you saved me, that you put yourself to something so horrible only to take revenge and then take me back home."

He was too stunned to reply, he could only look at her, maybe try to understand the words that were coming out of her mouth. _"She thinks she's not worth saving?"_ he asked himself, slowly processing the information.

"Every day, when I look at you, I search your eyes, waiting to see that glint that would tell me that you are starting to regret your decision. Every day, when I don't find it there yet, I am happy and I am able to breathe again, but I know it's only a matter of time." She trailed away, her voice loosing strength.

The rain had ceased to drown them, and the night was silent filled with her small sobs and his even breathing.

Anger overcame him and he stood up, spasmodically clenching and unclenching his fists. She looked up in surprise, pulling herself tightly together, her frame becoming smaller. He looked at her and through clenched teeth spoke: "How could you think something like that? How could that stupid thought ever cross your mind Ziva David? Do you know why I went to Somalia? Do you?" he asked frustration sipping out of his every pore.

She shook her head lightly and he continued.

"When Gibbs told me that there had been no survivors on that damned ship, he put a bullet through me, he ripped me apart. I was walking zombie that broke every piece of furniture in his apartment, which drank himself under the table only to be able to numb the pain that he was feeling. That was who I was Ziva, when he told me that you do not breathe on this planet anymore, that you would never open your eyes and watch the world through them, or even curl those lips into a warm smile. Day after day I thought of other ways to make my pain leave my body, but my body, my mind, my heart was yelling your name so loudly that I thought I will explode; and I did explode, because I could not accept that you were not alive. When we found out that Saleem was the reason you weren't alive anymore, the only thing that made me get out of bed every morning was the image of him on the floor bleeding slowly dying, feeling my pain, the pain he had caused.

When we got captured I knew that Gibbs wouldn't let us die, I know that the day would be saved and we would go home, and I could find the nearest bar and drink the hurt away, drink your face away. But another part of me wanted to die Ziva; wanted to die badly that I was ready to do anything reckless get myself killed so I would not have to breath another day without you…" he spoke but was stunned when a cold palm collided with his check. He then saw the angry frame staring at him, boring with her eyes through him, but he couldn't find the words to ask her why she had slapped him.

"Do you think getting killed would have made it all better Tony? Would you think that dying would have been easy on the others?" she trailed away, anger sipping other every word.

But suddenly her voice dropped and she spoke though tears : "Do you think I could have lived another day, if you would have not been alive? If you would have died that day, I would have begged to die along with you." She whispered and he had to lean into her to make out her words.

He was dumbstruck, when the meaning of her words embedded themselves into him. Slowly, he put him arm around her waist and she shivered lightly at the contact, but did not pull away. With an uncertain step he closed the gap between them, and took her hand. She lifted her eyes from the floor and searched his face. He took her slender fingers into his, rubbed her knuckles with his thumb and then brought her fingertips to his lips, kissing them lightly. She sighted, her eyes still searching his face.

"My point is, Ziva that I could never regret what I did. I could never think you are not worth saving, because you are worth more than words can express. You mean much more to me then words can express; and I'm afraid your still hate me for my past actions that you are not able to forgive and that kills me every day." He trailed away, while absentmindedly rubbing her cold hand.

He continued unsure, when he did not get a response from her: "I feel that every passing hour, tears us apart and I can't bare that anymore. I am tiered of pretending."

She pressed her cold body to his, closing her eyes and searching his face with her palms. With her eyes closed, she walked her hands along his contours, sighting. Lifting herself on her toes, she pressed her forehead to his, her fingers finding his and enwinding them.

Her words were a mere whisper: "Then don't!"


End file.
